


Some Assembly Required

by smellyleaf



Category: Olympics RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M, The Haney Project, Time Skips, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:26:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellyleaf/pseuds/smellyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Phelps' family thinks he really, really needs a girlfriend or maybe just needs to bathe more, they aren't sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Assembly Required

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on livejournal first, so really that version is better as it has the original italics (http://smellyfic.livejournal.com/86560.html) but from now on I am going to start typing my stories in HTML format, so next time I won't make that goof. Sorry!

**Title** : Some Assembly Required  
 **Pairing** : MPhelps/RLochte;  
 **Fandom** : RPF ;  
 **Rating** : PG13  
 **Warnings** : Real person fiction; Real person slash;  
 **Summary** :Michael Phelps' family thinks he really, really needs a girlfriend or maybe just needs to bathe more, they aren't sure.  
 **Notes** : 10,821 words! Tried to keep this from delving much into angst bc I just wasn't feelin angsty when I wrote it, ya know how it goes sometimes

The clock on the bedside table reads 9:54 and Michael Phelps is trying as hard as he possibly can to remain in bed until noon, but it's not going well so far.

He peeks through bleary eyes at his bedroom door as it slowly swings open. A moment later, Herman stands on his hind legs, nose just barely over the edge of the bed, and grunts like a pig. Usually, he has a set of miniature stairs he uses to waddle up onto the bed, but last night Michael pushed them over into the corner so that his "date" wouldn't get slobbered on in the middle of the night.

Now, Herman sniffs and sniffs until he's sure he's located Michael, then grunts his special series of " _pick me up_ " grunts.

Michael lets one arm flop over the edge of the bed, and Herman begins scratching at his bicep rather insistently.

"You want up?" Michael asks, and at the word ' _up_ ,' Herman grunts some more, "Alright, alright. Sorry buddy." He curves his arm and manages to hook Herman under the belly, then rolls over onto his back so that he pulls the dog right up on the bed.

Herman starts licking his face and grunting even more and fuck it, Michael has basically just been laying here pretending to sleep since his "date" snuck out of the condo around eight o'clock.

"Who's my buddy? You are Herm! You are!" He jiggles all Herman's fat rolls with his palms and then he sighs bodily and makes himself sit up and swing his feet to the floor. First stop is the bathroom, but he shoves Herman's stairs back against the bed on his way.

The floor is wet, because his guest took a shower with the curtain open apparently, and Michael mentally curls his lip in distaste as the soles of his feet rest on cold, wet tiles. Her towel is crumpled up in the corner, so after he pees he swipes it once or twice across the floor with his foot, then leaves it on the floor.

"Grub time," He tells Herman when they meet back up in the hall, and his faithful dog grunts in happy approval, "Applejacks or Lucky Charms?" Herman grunts some more, which Michael decides means Lucky Charms.

The box is still out on the counter, open, and Tiffany or Tonya or Tara or whatever-her-name-was left him a note on the fridge.  


                                                                                       __  
Michael-  
                                                                                                Thanks for a good time  
                                                                                                            -T  
                                                                                                PS: You're out of milk.  


"Goddammit," He groans, automatically shoving the cereal bag down into the box and closing it, "Like what the fuck."

Herman is eyeballing the cereal box still.

"No cereal today, dude." Michael puts the box back in the cabinet, "Can I make it up to you with a sausage biscuit?"  


  
\- - -

  
Twenty minutes and one short walk later, Michael is crumbling a McDonald's sausage biscuit into Herman's dog bowl (Herman is a delicate dog and can't chew large pieces of bread easily) when his cellphone rings.

It's February 10th at 10:00 am, so of course it's his sister.

"Hey dork,"Michael answers, holding the phone between his cheek and his shoulder so that he can set Herman's bowl back on the floor.

"How'd it go with Tamara?" Whitney asks, and the name registers as soon as she says it.

Tamara. The girl Whitney met at spin class, who wore too much perfume and ordered mostly drinks at the restaurant he'd taken her to. Wet floor/dirty towel Tamara.

"Not good." Michael says around a mouthful of hashbrown, "Think she stole my milk."

"People don't steal _milk_ , Michael."

He grunts, , "Whatever," rubbing Herman's side with his foot so he can see that stumpy tail try to wag, "I don't remember much, she picked this Mexican place over on Park and kept ordering me these fruity drinks, it was a nightmare."

It was a nightmare, but not because of the drinks. He isn't even exactly sure what the problem was, because Tamara wasn't a bad person or anything. But she spent a lot of the night talking about a skiing trip she'd taken with her friends the week before, and the rest of it naked.

"I don't think she's my type," Michael says instead.

"Michael, you don't _have_ a type," Whitney sighs, "You don't like _anybody_."

"That's not true," He says, leaning forward to pat Herman on his fat little stomach.

"Animals don't count," His sister replies knowingly.

Michael groans, trying to head another Phelps Woman Talk off at the pass, "Maybe I don't _want_ a girlfriend. Maybe I'm happy all by myself."

"Michael." She says, and it's obvious that he's going to get the Talk whether he wants it or not, "You've _been_ saying that, since you decided to stop swimming. We're worried about you. You know, you're not going to be young forever. You're still in good shape, you need to try to find someone now while you still-"

He tunes the rest of it out, opening the wrapper on his second egg mcmuffin. Herman has finished his own biscuit and turns around to rest his jowls on the edge of the couch cushion, drool pooling on either side of his lips.

Michael "drops" a piece of hashbrown and watches in amusement as Herman dives to the carpet to retrieve it.

"Are you even listening to me?" Whitney snaps.

"Yeah, yeah." Michael props his feet up on his coffee table next to the McDonald's bag.

"Well I think it'd be a really good thing for you. So you'll do it?"

Michael assumes she is talking about yet another blind date. As much as he hates taking the girls out and listening to long stories from their boring lives, booty is booty.

"When?" He asks.

"He told mom he could be here by tomorrow morning."

Him? Michael frowns, a bit of english muffin escaping his mouth to perch on his bottom lip, "Wait, wha-"

Whitney makes an excited sound, "This is so great! If anyone can find you a girlfriend, it's Ryan!"

Michael chokes on his muffin.

"He can be your... what do they call it? Wingman! He can be your Wingman!"

"No no n-" Michael chokes, the piece of half-chewed egg mcmuffin going down the wrong pipe. He starts coughing and all further protests are drowned out.

Whitney sighs, "Jeez, are you always eating? Try chewing before you swallow, baby brother. I gotta go anyway, mom's calling. Later." And she hangs up.

Herman eyes Michael critically as he continues to cough for a minute. Finally, rolling his eyes, Michael hands him the other half of the egg mcmuffin.

\- - -

  
That night, he goes to a weird dive bar over in Chinatown where no one seems very interested in talking to anyone else. The place serves pretty much the same shit as the bars he usually goes to, so he spends a couple hours hunched over his table taking vodka shots chased with the house beer, which tastes a lot like watery Budweiser.

He doesn't leave until the place is closing, whatever time that is. It's rained at some point, and the imitation lanterns cast squiggly reflections in the puddles he stumbles through on his way back. There's no cabs around at this time of night, so he has to lurch two or three blocks to the bus station before he can finally settle onto a bench and wait.

He must fall asleep sitting up, because next thing he knows the bus driver is barking at him.

"Hey, asshole, you ridin' or not?!"

A twenty dollar bill for the charge shuts the driver up, and then Michael is free to sit and sway in his seat until it's his turn to get out again. The ride isn't long (really, he could have walked it easily if he was sober) and the stop is just around the corner from his apartment.

Years of practice make climbing the stairs easier than it could be, at least. He fumbles his keys for a good five minutes though, dropping them twice, before he manages to open the door and lurch his way inside.

By this point, the apartment is spinning around him, so he just shuts the door and faceplants on the couch.

\- - -

  
His head is actually pounding so loud, he can hear it. A steady ****  
_thwomp thwomp thwomp. ThwompThwomp._  


Slowly, slowly, he sits upright and realizes that, no, the thumping sound is coming from his door.

And, also, why the hell has he been sleeping on the couch?

 _ **Thwomp thwomp thwomp**_ the door insists.

He fell asleep with his shoes on so now he toes them off, stumbling only twice on his way to the front door. Bracing himself for a talk with management about who-knows-what, he takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Oranges. The smell of oranges. Big, bright white teeth and a lime green t shirt.

"Morning, sunshine!" Ryan Lochte says, then looks Michael up and down, "Rough night?"

The smell of the McDonald's bag in Ryan's hand wafts inside the door and, without so much as a warning, Michael vomits something neon yellow out into the hall, missing the toes of Ryan's sneakers only because Ryan is sober enough to leap backwards in time.

"Ummmm...." Lochte  grimaces down at the vomit, "Whitney didn't say anything about puke."

Michael's only response is a grunt as he turns and walks back into the apartment, leaving the door open behind him.

"I'll just leave this out here, then...." Ryan says, setting the Mickey D's down next to the vomit before hopping over it and into the condo. He shuts the door behind him.

Michael is busy pulling all the curtains closed over the windows.

"Can you like, talk? Or is this really some kind of secret intervention I didn't know about?"

"Whassup." Michael manages to mumble out. Then he goes into his bedroom and shuts the door.

\- - -

  
"Yeah whatever, chickenshit, that's not what your fuckin' mom was sayin' last night!"

Michael wakes up to the slightly-muffled sounds of machine gun fire from his living room, interspersed with Ryan's voice screaming commands.

"LEFT you piece of shit, NO YOUR _OTHER_ LEFT-"

He goes to the bathroom first, brushing his teeth twice before he decides he needs to shower, too. By the time he gets done, the clock on his bedside table reads 3:08 and he almost feels like a real human again.

Ryan is sitting on Michael's couch, playing Michael's XBox with Michael's headset perched on his curly head, engaged in what appears to be a brutal argument with a 14 year-old.

"I'm not a fatass!" Ryan is busy screaming, "I've been to the _Olympics_ , you little motherfucker!" His head snaps left when Michael walks in and he says, cheerfully, "Oh, hey."

Michael snorts, walking past him and right into the kitchen.

"Hey,"  Ryan calls, "You know you're outta milk?"

Michael doesn't answer, pulling a bag of garlic chicken wings out of the freezer. He arranges about twenty on the pan, then glances at the wall between him and the living room and pulls another pan down. Better make double.

While the chicken cooks, he goes to the laundry room and switches everything from the wash to the dryer, and everything from the dryer into his hamper. Then he throws the wet towel into the washing machine and replaces it on his hips with his favorite pair of gym shorts.

"Scoot," He tells Ryan, back in the living room, and logs in with a second controller and headset. They spend the next twenty minutes playing in what is more-or-less a kind of silence. Ryan talks the whole time, of course, but it's mostly insults aimed at their fellow players. Then the oven dings and Michael gets up again.

"No food on the couch," Michael lies, even though he eats there all the time. Ryan doesn't argue, just sets the controller and headset on the coffee table and follows right behind him.

The oven mitts are hanging on the cabinet door to the left of the stove. Michael slides them on and takes the wings out of the oven while Ryan rifles through the fridge for sauce, settling on ranch and honey mustard.

"Soda's in the bottom drawer," Michael says.

Ryan crouches down and opens the vegetable drawer, pulling out a coke for each of them, and then joins Michael on the barstools nearest the food.

"Would've got some Dew if I knew you were coming," Michael says. Picking up a little drumstick by the bone, he takes a bite out of it and regrets that almost instantly, "Hmmn!" It's burning hot so he has to chew it with his mouth open, trying not to let it touch his tongue for too long.

Ryan watches him and snorts with laughter, "They told me I had to find you a girlfriend, not work miracles. Lameass."

"Shuffupt." Michael says around the chicken and punches him in the shoulder.

\- - -

  
"I don't _want_ a girlfriend," He tells Ryan later, in the backseat of the cab on their way to the club. He's wearing his usual jeans/black sweater combo with his favorite hoodie unzipped over it. Ryan, in contrast, is glowing in the dark with a bright red Ecko jacket.

"Dude, whatever. Everyone wants a girlfriend."

"Not me." Michael replies stubbornly.

Ryan rolls his eyes but doesn't answer again.

The club is one Ryan found online, and it's a newer one. They wait in line like everybody else and Michael pays the cover charge for both of them.

Inside, some dubstep pop remix is blaring, and go go dancers are whipping their ponytails around under blacklights. It's exactly the kind of place Michael tries to avoid going, where the girls are usually 25 at the oldest and all the tits are fake. It's also  exactly the kind of place Ryan would pick.

"C'mon!" Lochte screams over the music, and then he's weaving his way through the crowd and Michael has no choice but to follow. It's about a thousand degrees inside because of the crowd, so they coat check at the bar and Ryan orders them each a shot of whiskey.

The bartender sets the shots down in front of them and turns away to wait on someone else. Michael grimaces at the brown fluid.

"You know I hate whiskey."

"Drink that shit!" Ryan yells, slapping his palm on the bar for emphasis, "Don't be a pussy!"

So they throw their shots back, with Michael pulling faces the whole time, and then Ryan is tapping two twenty year-olds on their bare shoulders.

"Wanna dance?" He says, and next thing Michael knows the four of them are out in the middle of it all, with bodies pressed on every side.

\- - -

  
"Shot! Shot! Shot!" Everyone is chanting, Michael included.

They've somehow gotten mixed in with someone else's bachelor party, and now Ryan is practically the guy's best man. They've been trading off on rounds of beer with the guys all night, but now the groom-to-be is standing on the bar holding a bottle, making some kind of toast.

"Take a shot, Larry!" Ryan screams, hands cupped around his mouth.

The groom tips the bottle back and everybody cheers, though Ryan cheers loudest of all.

Two of the go go dancers are perched on the bar near them, and one of them has been chatting Ryan up unsuccessfully all night.

Now, Coco or Candycane or whatever-her-name-is, leans in to whisper something in Ryan's ear that sets him nodding like a bobblehead.

Michael elbows him, "What?"

"Dude, let's go with Karma and smoke this blunt, dude!" Ryan jumps up and down in place like a little kid offered a toy.

Michael pulls a face, "Ehh...."

"Quit bein' a buzzkill and c'mon!" Ryan insists, then grabs Michael's arm and pulls him along.

Karma leads them through a back room and out the fire escape door, where several other club employees are sitting around smoking their cigarettes in a narrow alleyway next to the dumpster. Michael would be rolling his eyes if he weren't so drunk.

Karma lights the blunt, but Michael doesn't smoke it when Ryan tries to hand it his way. He does take a cigarette from her though, because he likes to smoke every now and then when he's drinking. It's a pretty night, and the music is just a low bass thumping through the bricks.

He doesn't let himself scrutinize how he feels, having Ryan front row and center to his sad little life.

 _Ryan looks good_ , he thinks to himself, watching him flirt with the dancer. The red jacket has a white fur-lined hood and Michael thinks it sort of looks like a halo around Ryan's face, which is a funny thing to think about his friend, maybe.

Before too long, Ryan is bumping into him, "Let's go take a shot."

"Hell yeah," Michael says without much conviction, but he follows.

\- - -

  
Michael wakes up Wednesday morning to the smell of coffee and bacon, with Herman naturally nowhere in sight.

He's actually wearing his pajama pants, so he rolls out of bed and follows the food smell right into his own kitchen.

The stove reads 10:30 and Ryan Lochte is already dressed, holding one of Michael's forks in one hand and his phone in the other, texting over a pan of sizzling bacon.

"Ouch!" Ryan hisses to himself, his back to Michael, and pulls his phone hand farther away from the pan.

Michael raises a brow, "Morning, sunshine," and tries not to smirk when Ryan jumps.

Ryan recovers smoothly however, tipping him a nod, "Sup."

Michael edges around him to get to the coffee cups still dripping on his dish drainer. It's embarrassing to see that Ryan did the dishes too, so he offers an excuse, "Yeah, sorry the place is a mess, man..."

Ryan doesn't say anything at first, just flips the bacon. Even though the other side has a minute to cook, Ryan stares intently into the pan as if absorbed by the sight.

"Yeah," Ryan says casually enough, "Your mom said you fired the maid or something?"

Michael slides back behind him and goes to the other side of the marble island to pour his coffee, "Yeah." He feels like he's said that too much, so he tries again, "I did."

Michael feels more comfortable having this conversation back-to-back, so he takes his sweet time stirring in sugar and then creamer.

"Now what'd you go and do that for?" Ryan asks.

"I couldn't trust her."

Ryan doesn't reply to that for a beat, letting it sink in, "Well," He pauses again, like he doesn't exactly know what he should say, "Why not? What happened?"

Michael sighs and turns around to Ryan's back, "She was weird. Nothing happened exactly, I just..." He trails off lamely.

"Bad vibes, huh?" Ryan nods.

"Yeah," Michael nods too, relieved to have something to claim.

Ryan turns around then, and he's still nodding, but he says, "So the other four were bad vibes too, huh?"

Michael stops nodding.

Now they are face-to-face, and that is a different thing entirely. Michael hates talking face-to-face.

"Don't lie to me, dude," Ryan drawls, and his tone is so casual, bored at best. Like he finds Michael's lies more time-consuming than irritating, really.

So Michael sighs again, and Ryan cuts the stove off and serves them both bacon and toast, with some bacon crumbles for Herman in his dog bowl.

"Well, the drinking's not the problem 'cause you didn't puke again, so that was just a one time thing," Ryan jokes, and Michael kicks him.

They chew and swallow for a long stretch, and then Ryan takes both their plates and dumps them in the sink, "I called this place SqeekieKleen I found online. So get dressed, cause I hate sittin' around the house while they clean, makes me feel like an asshole."

Michael scowls, "I don't want-"

"This place is disgusting," Ryan snaps, and it's the first thing he's said that isn't cheerful as usual, "Just shut up and get dressed, dude."

 

\- - -

  
They go shopping, because of course they do.

Ryan buys what he considers to be the essentials: Shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, razors, aftershave, hair mousse, sunscreen, toilet paper, paper towels, dish soap, detergent, FeBreeze, flour, eggs, bacon, chicken, olives, cheese, frozen pizzas, Mountain Dew, macaroni and cheese, and beer.

"I have shampoo," Michael grumbles irritably on aisle four.

"Not the right kind," Ryan replies, putting another case of Mountain Dew in the buggy.

Michael pulls something out of the cart, "And this isn't Florida, I don't need sunscreen."

Ryan snatches it back, throwing it in again, "You're supposed to wear sunscreen every day, that's why your nose is peeling."

"It's not." Michael says, rubbing it.

"Is so," Ryan mutters.

Michael pays at the register and it's only once they're home and Ryan is putting up the beer that he notices.

"Fuck!" He says, "We forgot the fuckin' milk."

Michael has to admit (silently, to himself, of course) that the condo looks a lot better. For one, the coffee table is actually a table now, instead of a McDonald's bag holder. And for two, they even vacuumed Herman's doggy stairs.

"Your dog has stairs." Ryan deadpans, coming up behind him to peer into his bedroom.

Michael frowns defensively, "The vet says not to encourage him to jump, it's bad for his back."

"Stairs. I'm just sayin'. You're the one all worked up about it."

Michael shoves him, though not that hard, and walks into his room.

"Smells better in here, I can say that much," says Ryan.

This is true. Michael isn't about to admit that though, so instead he goes over to his closet and flicks the light on. His clothes are all hanging up.

"AND they put the laundry away? That's classy service right th-"

"Okay, okay," Michael snaps, "I like it. It's clean. I like it."

Satisfied, Ryan grins and walks away.

\- - -

  
Wednesday night, Ryan fries chicken and serves it with Kraft mac on Michael's good plates, with a beer each.

"This is a lot better than that time you made Ramen noodles in the ice bucket," Michael says with a grin, shoveling a forkful of macaroni into his mouth.

"Hey, you still ate 'em," Ryan counters.

"I had to!" Michael says, "We'd only been in China 24-hours and you ate _all_ my good American Kit Kats."

Ryan laughs, "Then you had to get them nasty orange cream ones-"

"-From that creepy dude at the Chinese dollar store, you remember what he called you?"

"Some Chinese shit," Ryan shakes his head, "But you looked it up in your translation book and it meant-"

" _Little Monkey Ass_." They say in unison, and dissolve into laughter.

"Yeah," Ryan chuckles, "Good times, dude."

After dinner, Michael plays Grand Theft Auto on his couch while Ryan uses the shower. He's not really going through the missions, just walking around with a baseball bat beating down random civilians. He's in the middle of just such an episode, smacking some lady over and over, when Ryan comes walking in in just his boxers, towel over his head while he ruffles his hair dry.

"I don't feel like going out," Michael says. He's trying not to even glance Ryan's way, but the guy is wearing a pair of fucking blue and orange striped boxers with a gator head on the crotch, and that is a level of strange Michael wasn't expecting.

"Fine, but tomorrow we're entering phase two."

"Phase two?" Michael asks.

"Cutting that ratchet thing off your face." Ryan says, yanking on his gym shorts.  


        

\- - -

  
"I don't like this," Michael says.

Ryan has him slathered in shaving cream and leaned back in one of the dining room chairs, with a towel around his neck.

"Oh shut up, I've probably shaved my own face what? A _billion_ friggin' times? I've got this."

Michael frowns, and then frowns even more when all it does is cause Ryan to snicker.

"You look like an angry snowman," He chuckles.

"You're about to look like a red stain on the floor!"

Ryan just rolls his eyes and uncaps the razor, "Stop moving or I'll cut you."

So Michael is silent and Ryan uses three different disposable razors to shave his beard off. It takes the better part of twenty minutes, and Michael decides it is the worst twenty minutes of his entire life. His heart is beating way too fast, maybe because Ryan could nick a major artery at any moment, maybe for reasons he doesn't care to explore, so he just closes his eyes and prays for it to be over.

"Much better," Ryan announces when he's done, leaning back to survey his work, "Now you don't look like a fucking grizzly ass mountain man."

Michael throws the towel down and stands up, crossing the hall to the bathroom to get a look in the bathroom mirror.

"Well?" Ryan calls, "Remembering what your face looks like now?"

Michael rubs his palm over his newly smooth skin, frowning into the mirror, "I look twelve."

"No." Ryan appears in the doorway, arms crossed, "You DON'T look homeless, that's the difference. And you look twenty-somethin', not twelve."

"What does this have to do with me being single?"

Ryan rolls his eyes, like it should be obvious, "Nobody wants rugburn on their face."

That night, Michael takes him out for dinner. The restaurant is the one he almost always takes his dates to, a Greek place on Park that has great food.

As usual, Ryan has packed for anything, and he looks very put together in a navy blue suit and sky blue tie. Michael is just wearing his same old khakis and jacket combo, and he feels pretty KMart next to Ryan's obviously tailored ensemble.

"What should I order?" Ryan asks, staring at the menu with his mouth held in an 'O' shape, "Everything sounds good."

"I always get the herb-crusted lamb," Michael says, "But you'll just eat off my plate, so maybe you should get something different so you can try both."

Ryan nods along with this logic, then mumbles, "Think I'll start the night early with something on the rocks..."

Michael is studying the menu still, even though he just said what he was going to order, but he hates awkward eye-contact before the food, "I was going to order a bottle, actually. If you want."

Ryan raises an eyebrow, but Michael isn't looking, so Ryan just says, "Sure."

They order, and the waiter delivers the bottle of champagne first, pouring the first glass for each of them.

"So what're we celebrating?" Ryan asks, leaning back in his chair to run his tie through his fingers.

"You don't have to be celebrating to drink champagne," Michael says, but shrugs, "A clean apartment."

"I'll drink to that," Ryan shoots back with a grin, so they tap their glasses and drink.

The conversation revolves mostly around what Ryan has been up to in Florida, with frequent intermissions for hilarious Lochte Family adventures. Michael has always felt like an extended member of the Lochtes, and he loves hearing Ryan relate their minor arguments and drama. The more champagne they drink, the more they talk. Before long, Michael is leaning forward, elbows on the table, and his cheeks hurt from smiling.

The food comes then, and Michael starts cutting his meat into equal size portions. Ryan watches him for a minute, looking quite amused, but he manages to keep his comments back. True to form, he eats about half his own before his arm comes across the table to fork a piece of Michael's.

"Mmmm," He judges, nodding his head as he chews. High praise.

They don't talk much during the actual meal, because they rarely talk and eat at the same time. But the silence is a comfortable one, and Michael reflects that he really is happy to have his friend here with him.

"You gonna eat that?" Ryan asks him when he's finished, and by the time the waiter shows up, both plates are on Ryan's side of the table. Another person would be embarrassed, but Ryan doesn't even seem phased as the waiter picks the plates up and asks about dessert.

"Yeah," Ryan says, "Do you have any suggestions?"

Three bottles of champagne, two martinis, and a lot of cheesecake later, the two stumble down Park Street together, arm in arm to keep from tripping in the downpour.

"Does it rain this much in Florida?" Michael asks, slurring on the 'Fl.'

"More," Ryan replies.

It's not a long walk, but it takes longer to do anything when you're drunk.

They're laughing by the time they get on the front steps, and they're soaked. Michael looks at Ryan and that just makes him laugh more, because his suit is soaked and his tie looks black it's so wet.

He fumbles the keys, as usual. Ryan is shivering from the hall air conditioner on his wet skin, and Michael dimly thinks that they'll probably get sick from this. Then the door finally opens and they more-or-less fall inside,both heading to the same hall bathroom because it's closest. First, off come the shoes, which they toss into the bathtub at almost the same time. Then, it's wet socks hung  over the faucet. Jacket, shirt, and tie over the shower rod, dripping down into the porcelain. Next, the pants and-

They make eye contact, both of their hands on their waistbands. Then, with a nod of mute understanding, Michael leaves the bathroom and goes to his own. He hangs his boxers over his own shower rod and then he changes into warm, dry clothes and snuggles down under his blankets with Herman and cuts his light off.

 _That almost got weird_ , he thinks to himself. Then he sleeps.

                                                                                          - - -

Thursday morning is bacon and cheese omelets, with a mini bacon omelet for Herman. Herman's little tail stump just won't stop wagging.

"Herman's gonna be so sad when you leave," Michael tells Ryan around a mouthful of omelet, "Usually he just gets my left over cereal."

Ryan smiles slightly, slicing off a bite-sized portion of omelet with the side of his fork.

"It's been cool to have you here," Michael offers casually, "Thanks for being my homie."

Ryan shrugs, "No big deal. It's been a blast."

They don't mention anything from after the rain last night, because why would they? Michael has more or less forgotten about it already, and he's already put the clothes into the wash. Regardless, things feel strangely tense this morning.

"So, you got a phase three of this master plan?" Michael jokes, poking at the cheese melted to his plate.

"I didn't really come down here with a plan," Ryan says, "I was just makin' that up as I went along."

"I figured."

Silence falls between them, and Ryan stands up to take their plates and forks to the sink.

"You wanna go to District tonight? That's where I usually go to chick scope," Michael finally says, trying to fill the silence.

"Yeah," Ryan agrees readily enough, "Sounds awesome."  


\- - -

  
District is a small place downtown, and they don't have any go go dancers. What they do have is $6 Jager bombs and a populated Thursday night/Ladies night crowd.

They get there a little early, so at first the place is pretty much dead. So they sit down side-by-side at the bar and watch ESPN center on the flatscreen and toss down a few Jager shots. Over the course of an hour, people start to show up and the band of the night starts their first set. With Valentine's Day so close, a lot of the women come across as pretty desperate. Michael isn't into that whole scene, so he retreats to the pool tables and orders a pitcher of beer.

He feels kind of neglected, but Ryan flat out refuses to play a game of pool and Michael doesn't really want to pick up chicks. So he drinks his share of six dollar drinks while Ryan flirts with girls at the bar, and then he leaves sometime around midnight and goes home.

He's sleeping, two empty beers on his bedside table, when Ryan flips the light on.

"You left."

Michael grunts something unintelligible and pulls the covers over his head. Then they're snatched off.

"You left," Ryan repeats, "You didn't even say you wanted to come home."

"You were having a good time," Michael grumbles, shielding his eyes with his forearm.

"You could have told me you wanted to leave, I was having an awful time. It was _your_ idea to go out."

"You were picking up girls."

"I don't want to pick up girls!" Ryan snaps, losing his cheerfulness, "Why didn't you just say you didn't wanna pick up chicks?"

Michael is groggy and tired, "Whatever. Sorry. Stop making a big deal out of it, dude."

Ryan is silent then, but he is clearly not any bit happier. He chews his lip for a minute or two, and Michael squints up into the light at him, and then he sighs.

"I'm going home tomorrow."

"Okay," says Michael.

"Okay," says Ryan, and then he leaves the room and shuts the light off.  


\- - -

  
The next morning, Michael wakes up late, with a headache. He keeps his eyes mostly closed on his way to the kitchen, beelining straight for the coffee pot to pour himself a cup.

He stirs in the sugar and the creamer, then lifts the cup and takes a sip.

"Ugh!" He spits it out, coffee going everywhere. It's cold and stale. Naturally, his next thought is to turn around and see what time it is on the stove, and that's when he sees it. A note on the fridge.

                                                                          _It was awesome dude. Good 2 see you_  
                                                                                                         -RY  
                                                                           I bought milk btw

Michael crosses the kitchen and pulls the note off, then walks into the living room.

Ryan's stuff is gone, yes. Herman is laying on the couch.

Michael sits down next to his dog and reads the note a couple more times, then sets it down on the coffee table.

He has a headache. He figures maybe the rain did make him sick, so he grabs a beer and he goes back to bed.  


  
\- - -- - -- - -- - -- - -

  
It is six months later, August, and it's still plenty hot down in Florida. The Lochte house is packed full of swimmers and Ryan's college and towny friends, and all the curtains are drawn in anticipation of his surprise party.

Michael hovers on the edge of one of the swimmer groups, listening to Cullen Jones talk about his new dog and Nathan Adrian about his training. He happens to have some big news of his own, but he chooses to keep it to himself, standing back and smiling at what everyone else says.

He hasn't seen Ryan since February, but they still like each others' Facebook posts and favorite each others' tweets, so it's not exactly a falling out so much as an awkwardness. But now Michael is here, at the surprise party, and Ryan Lochte is scheduled to be walking through the front door any minute.

"Hey!" Devon comes rushing in from the kitchen, "Brandon says they're almost here, everybody get in here!"

The party crowd all rushes for the kitchen, giggling and whispering in excited anticipation of the birthday boy's arrival. Michael is just floating along with the group when Devon grabs him by the arm and yanks him behind the living room sofa, where Megan is already crouched down.

"Count to ten when he walks in!" Devon calls out to the house  in general.

"You made it!" Megan whispers, patting Michael on the shoulder in a friendly greeting.

Michael is just about to whisper back when they all hear footsteps on the porch, and then the sound of either Brandon or Ryan's key in the lock.

"Mom!" Ryan's voice carries through the house, "Dad! I'm home!"

"SURPRISE!" Everyone screams, and everyone hears Devon's added " _BITCH_!" after it. Michael jumps out just like the rest of them, and the look of surprise on Ryan's face really is great.

"Oh shit!" Ryan says, and then he laughs and grabs Brandon in a headlock, scrubbing his knuckles across his head, "I ALMOST PISSED MYSELF YOU LITTLE FUCKS!"

Devon and Brandon high five and everyone from the kitchen really comes pouring out. It's all smiles and laughter and Michael is smiling too, so wide that it makes his jaw hurt.

Ryan makes the rounds, hugging everybody, and if he's extra surprised to see Michael there, he doesn't show it. They exchange friendly greetings, and Michael sticks his hands in his pockets to hide sweaty palms.

Ryan is tanner than he was in February, and his black shirt has blue triangles all across the front that make his eyes look even bluer. He looks great, and Michael wants to talk to him so bad that he struggles for a second to come up with something to say.

"Wearing your sunscreen?" He finally asks, and then mentally winces because holy fuck that's so stupid.

But Ryan laughs, and his cheeks dimple up, "Yeah, of course, dude."

It is August 3rd and on August 10th Michael is intending to tell his manager that he's ready to retire. He wants to tell Ryan that he understands now that he was having some kind of almost breakdown thing, and that sometimes nothing makes sense like it's supposed to when you've set yourself a life dream and accomplished it by your mid-twenties.

It takes a lot of self esteem and confidence to look around you and decide to start over. He wishes he could say these things and make Ryan understand them.

"So, what's it like up North?" Ryan asks.

Swimming has given Michael a lot of things, and he would never be so ignorant to say they were even mostly bad. No, the majority of those things were good things. But you don't have to experience a lot of bad to regret the bad you _did_ see. He almost tells everyone his news right then, but something holds him back.

"Lonely," He replies, and his hands are still in his pockets and he can't stop looking at the triangles on Ryan's shirt.

When he looks up, Ryan is assessing him intently, and they look at each other in a moment of silence.

"I don't _want_ a girlfriend," Michael says.

Ryan nods thoughtfully, like he is really hearing what Michael is saying, and then he agrees, "Me neither."

"Are you two fucking mind-reading right now or am I just not fucking following here?" Devon says loudly, and then he slaps Ryan on the back, "C'mon, birthday boy, take a shot with me."

Ryan glances between Michael and Devon, "You comin' Mike?"

Michael shrugs sort of awkwardly, "Ehh... I'm not really much of a drinker these days..."

Ryan raises a brow, but he goes off with Devon anyway.

The party is pleasant. Michael isn't the only person who isn't drinking, and he has a good time catching up with everybody and laughing at all the Lochte boys' antics. Ryan pushes Devon into the pool at some point and then the pair of them chase each other around the party for the next hour, culminating in a brutal wrestling match in the kitchen that nearly knocks the cake over.

When the party is done and over and everyone with the early morning flights has been long gone, Ryan sits on the couch with a party hat crooked on top of his curly head. He's good and drunk, and when Michael comes to sit down next to him he smiles widely.

"Miiiiiikey," He drawls, "You're still here."

Michael nods, but before he can say anything, Mrs. Lochte comes bustling up with a tupperware container full of cake.

"Ryan," She says sternly, "I don't want you driving, your father and I think you should stay the night in your old roo-"

"I can drive him home," Michael chimes in.

Mrs. Lochte eyeballs him closely, but he apparently passes her Sober Test, because she hands him the tupperware container with a pleasant, "Thanks, dear."

"Michael Phelps: Designated Driver, National _Treasure_." Ryan slurs.

"C'mon," is Michael's only reply. They go out to his rental car and Ryan sort of falls into the front seat. Even after all the years, with pretty scarce visits throughout, Michael can still remember how to get to Ryan's house. It's about a half hour drive, and his passenger passes out for about 29.9 minutes of it.

"Hey, this is my house," Ryan says helpfully when they get there.

"Yup," Michael agrees. He helps Ryan unlock the door and then there they are, alone in the front room.

"I think we should kiss now," Ryan says, toeing off his sneakers clumsily, so that he stumbles into the table where he usually throws his keys.

Michael is more than surprised. His mind goes completely blank and all he can do is just stare at Ryan. Finally, he manages to choke out, "Wha?"

And then Ryan just kind of falls in his direction and their lips meet. Michael's friend is kissing him, he is kissing his friend, they are kissing. And Ryan tastes like birthday cake, and it's a _good_ taste.

"Wait, you're totally drunk," Michael says quickly, like his brain had to fast forward to catch up to current developments.

"C'mon, give me a good birthday present," Ryan slurs.

"I gave you a birthday present already," Michael snaps, "You're wearing it, remember?" He points to the platinum watch on Ryan's wrist, glittering in the half-light coming in through the window cut into Ryan's front door.

Ryan frowns, "I know, it was a come on-" He cuts himself off, shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his eyes, "Shit. Um. Fuck. Okay, well I don't exactly know what to say but I thought you'd be more into this. I mean... fuck. You're upset. I'm sorry."

"I'm not upset!" Michael snaps again, and he thinks he is maybe having a minor heart attack, can people in their twenties have those?

Ryan is too drunk for this. He opens and closes his mouth several times and no words come out.

"I have to go!" Michael says, and he doesn't know why he keeps saying everything in such a stupid voice, it sounds completely fake, "I'm not upset! I have to go!"

Then he rushes outside and out to his rental car. He holds the steering wheel in both hands and he bangs his forehead against it five or six times and he wishes he was drunk right now so none of this would matter.

\- - -

  
August 4th is a Monday, and Michael texts Ryan around noon to meet him for a late lunch at Hunan Wok, a Chinese place down the street from Michael's hotel. They have something more important than the night before to talk about, and Michael doesn't want their friendship to suffer from drunken mistakes.

Michael has already been there about ten minutes, dejectedly eating hot and sour soup, when Ryan finally comes sliding in. He's wearing the same clothes as the day before, and he sort of smells like a bottle of orange extract, a mixture of citrus and vodka.

"No sleep?" Michael asks as Ryan slides into the booth seat across from him. Under the table, Ryan's feet push forward to collide with his, and Michael tries desperately to maintain a straight face.

Ryan doesn't answer, so Michael chooses his words carefully, "Ryan, you're a really good friend of mine-"

"Actually," Ryan interrupts, "I have something to say too. You care if I go first?"

Michael's stomach drops, "Wait, no, I just-" He wants to ignore what happened, he doesn't want Ryan bringing it up.

Ryan continues anyway, "Mike, I just wanna be honest with you. I know how your little brain works, okay? I know what you're thinkin'," Ryan shifts his feet, the toes of his sneakers bumping against the toes of Michael's, "You think we had this great friendship and now I kissed you and fucked it up. But I think I should just admit that I've been feeling that way for a while now, since before I even came up North last February, and the friendship you remember is really just the same crush I've had for a long time. So I just want to be honest and tell you that before you say what you're gonna say."

"Ryan-," Michael splutters and stutters, tongue tripping over the consonants, "That w-wasn't what I was g-gonna talk about." He's having that heart attack feeling again, except way worse.

There's an awkward silence, then Ryan finally shrugs, "Well. Um. We're talking about it now then I guess."

Michael feels his face go hot and he knows he's turning red. His brain bounces from corner to corner and he cannot figure out a single decent thing to say. Ryan has said a lot and he's done even more, and Michael Phelps is frozen in place with his heartbeat going ninety to nothing, and he can't even react properly.

So, instead of looking into himself for some kind of answer, he blurts, "I'm retiring from swimming."

It's like there's a psychological record scratch, and then Ryan squints at him, "What?"

"I decided a while ago to retire. You're the first person I've told other than my mom, my agent doesn't even know yet."

The waitress sets down steaming plates of chicken and Ryan stares at Michael the whole time, a hollow expression behind his eyes like he's being sucked into a black hole of thought.

"I'm going to golf," Michael says, trying to fill the silence.

Ryan stays stuck for a few more long minutes and then he seems to actually physically shudder away whatever he's been thinking, "Oh." He says, and then he snaps out of it and smiles, "Awesome, dude. Do what makes you happy."

"I just wanted to tell you because you're my best friend," Michael starts, but then Ryan stands up and walks off so abruptly that it cuts him short, "Ryan?"

Ryan Lochte doesn't turn around, he just keeps walking right to the door and out it onto the sidewalk.

"Ry!" Michael calls after him, but he waits too long for a reaction and then he's left jogging after his friend, "Ry! Stop!" Michael catches up and grabs him by the shoulder.

"What's the matter with you?" Michael asks him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face (though Ryan keeps it resolutely turned away). "Why are you making such a big dea-"

"Stop telling me I'm making a big deal out of shit!" Ryan snaps then, "One of us has to give a fuck about something other than YOU every once in a while!"

That stings, "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean you're so fuckin' self-centered that it's retarded how much I like you!" Ryan brushes Michael's hand off his shoulder.

"That's not true! You know I'm not like that."

"You changed the subject on me. Not cool, MP."

They're arguing in the middle of the sidewalk, but Michael doesn't care. Folding his arms over his chest, he flushes red again, "Well, I didn't know what to say..."

"Say anything! Grow a pair of fucking nuts!" Ryan yells, "Just say you don't like me!"

Michael frowns, "I don't know if..."

"HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW?!" Ryan yells, waving his arms in the air for emphasis, "IT'S A SIMPLE THING."

"I JUST...!" Michael screams at him, and he realizes he isn't even angry at Ryan but at himself, at Stupid Michael, always fucking things up. Because it really is a simple question with a simple answer, and he's the one complicating it and making it into something it's not.

Ryan starts to turn away and then Michael steps forward and puts his arms around Ryan's neck and it feels right. The crooks of each elbow line up perfectly with his hands and Ryan's nose comes up just perfectly to the gap above Michael's upper lip. Ryan looks like a cat that just got splashed, bristled and tensed and surprised, and that's perfect and right too, so Michael decides in the spur of the moment to finally kiss him back.

Ryan tastes like beer and weed and the coffee he must have been drinking all night, and that doesn't sound good but it is good, it's perfectly wonderful. It's better than Michael expected or imagined it would be, and when Ryan relaxes and settles his hands on the small of Michael's back it is just that much better.

Naturally, his mind is racing, thinking of every single bad outcome in a half second flat. Of course he's questioning what he's doing and why he's doing it and if he's going to regret it. And then Ryan makes this sound at the back of his throat, almost a grunt but not quite, and his fingers twitch and press deeper into Michael's skin and that is perfect, too.

They separate to breathe, both physically and mentally. It feels like the tension has gone and then Ryan glances over Michael's shoulder and says, "Are you gonna change your mind about this in like, five seconds?"

"No." Michael answers, and he feels a sort of bare honesty in his answer, "I decided I was thinking about it too much."

Ryan squints at him, "...You sure?"

"Yeah."

Ryan exhales a breath Michael didn't even know he was holding, and then he laughs, "I was really hoping you wouldn't find some stupid bimbo girlfriend."

"Me too," Michael says, because sometimes you can't realize the truth of something until after the fact.  


  
\- - -- - -- - -- - -- - -

  
It's mid-April a year later, and Michael is in Florida again, but this time he's not staying in a hotel.

"So, how'd it go, Tiger?" Ryan asks him the minute he opens the front door.

Golfing does not come as natural to Michael Phelps as swimming, and he has found The Haney Project to be both rewarding and frustrating at the same time. On one hand, he is always happy to hear Hank congratulate him on a good shot, but on the other hand...

"Fucking sucks," Michael grumbles, tossing his golf bag into the corner of Ryan's living room maybe a little too roughly.

"Bad day?" Ryan asks, and scoots over on the couch so that there is plenty of room when Michael, predictably, throws himself down onto it with his head in Ryan's lap.

"Why the fuck did I decide to do this?"

"Hmmm," Ryan thinks out loud, "Could be for the thrill of trying something new, or to challenge yourself. Maybe because it's a new experience and it's all enriching and shit." He grins, "But I'm _pretty sure_ it was just for the free polos."

"Ass," Michael snarls, and then nips him on the thigh for good measure.

Ryan jerks, "Hey! No biting below the belt! Red flag, timeout, foul!"

Michael is laughing then, and his stress dissipates a bit. Rolling over, he squints up at Ryan and into the bright overhead lights, "What'd you do today?"

"Nothing. Went to lunch with dad, he bitched about you not being there. Cleaned my shoes. Sat around." He shrugs,  "Boring day-off shit."

Ryan is wearing the necklace Michael bought him, a thin silver chain with a platinum puzzle piece hanging from it. Michael knows that the piece fits in with his own necklace, just like how he and Ryan fit together so well, and he smiles to himself as he thinks of it.

"What?" Ryan asks him, scrunching his face up, "Why you got that goofy look on your face?"

"Because I love you so much," Michael says simply.

Ryan smiles back, and then his grin turns a bit malicious and he tries to stick his fingers up Michael's nose. The result, of course, is that Michael ends up slapping his hands away, and then they are in a slap fight for a minute, calling each other all kinds of names.

"Nuclear-tested dolphin!"

"Frat boy!"

Their heads collide with a conk and Ryan laughs and they both give up, relaxing again.

They lay in silence for a long time. Another person, another partner, would be pressuring Michael to talk about his day. But not Ryan. He lets Michael wrap his head around it in his own time, let's him think and overthink as much as he wants.

"He just kept saying ' _This is not the warm up pool_ ,' over and fucking over," Michael finally gripes, speaking on his day with Hank Haney, "You know how much that pissed me off? Like he even fucking understands swimming, like he knows anything about preparing for something like 500 yards in the water."

Ryan scratches his fingers through Michael's beard absently and listens.

"It's such a load of shit. ' _Be committed to your routine_ ,' he says. Like I don't know about routines! I _invented_ the fucking routine, my entire fucking LIFE is a routine!"

Ryan glances down at him, "Well, did you break your score thingy?" He doesn't pretend to know much about golf.

Michael grimaces, "Yeah, 85 instead of 91. But what does that even matter? It still sucks."

"You just started. I mean, when you started swimming back in middle school, did you expect to break the world record?"

"No, but that's different."

Ryan smiles, "No it's not. YOU'RE different. You're older, you're frustrated, and you're tired of Hank acting like golf is a better sport than swimming." His smile widens, "You still love swimming."

"Of course I do, I always will."

"Well...," Ryan chews his lip, "And hear me out. Maybe, just maybe, you REALLY decided to do golf because you thought you'd already taken all the happiness out of swimming that you could by winning so much. But maybe really it was the actual swimming you liked so much, not the winning, and you miss it."

Michael scowls, "Not this again."

"Oh come on!" Ryan rolls his eyes, "Just admit that you miss it. It's not the same thing as saying you made a mistake, you probably didn't, you obviously were about to have some kind of Michael Phelps Meltdown. But you can at least say you miss it."

"I don't. I don't miss being America's golden boy one bit."

"That's not what I said. I said swimming."

Michael sighs, "Ry, this conversation has no future. Can we please talk about something else? I'm only going to be here two more days, you know."

Ryan is silent for a second, but then he gives in with a smile, "Well, now that you mention it, I guess we better not talk at all..." And his hand slides up under Michael's shirt to press against smooth, still-shaven skin.

Michael smiles, slowly and happily, and he places his hand on top of Ryan's to hold it in place over his heart, "Now, _you_ on the other hand. _You_ , I'll say I'll miss."

\- - -

  
His first day back in his own town is shitty, and awful, and exhausting.

First, the airline tells him they lost his baggage, then they magically find it. Then the taxi he's in gets stuck behind a funeral procession, and his phone is dead and his laptop is dead, so he's bored out of his mind. The pizza place gets his pizza wrong, Herman has chewed up two of his favorite pairs of shoes while he's been away, and the credit card company calls to inform him that there is a temporary hold on his card due to some sort of fraud in Korea.

So, needless to say, he doesn't unpack that first night, just texts Ryan a summary that explains that he is alive and tired and goes to bed. But the next morning means an early jog and a need for headphones and his wallet, so he finds himself digging through his duffle bag first thing after his shower.

Ryan knows him so well that the note is actually taped to his wallet. It takes Michael a straight minute to unfold it, because Ryan taped it all fucked up and it wants to rip, but finally he pries the paper apart to see what's written.  


                                                   __  
Mike:  
                                                  I know I'm not really great at saying stuff in person sometimes, but I think that this will be just as good. Michael, I like you for a lot of reasons and a ton of them don't make  any sense at all. But I especially like you because no matter what you never give up. You taught me a long time ago that if you really want something, you have to be willing to bust your ass for it. Before I even loved you or liked you I respected that idea, and I want you to know I still do.  
                      But like my mom used to tell us, life doesn't come in a box from IKEA with all the instructions and the perfect parts for the perfect dream. Life definitely takes some assembly.  
                      And I just wanted you to know that I will always be there to help you turn the right screws to build your dreams. Golf or swimming or whatever.  
                                                      Love, Ry  
                      PS: Don't forget to buy milk.  



End file.
